Fertility, springtime, new life - the month of May, named after Maia the
goddess of Spring in the ancient legends.

It's Spring here in Melbourne, and it's September. A few days ago a baby girl
was born, and her parents named her Maia.

Maia is the first word in my journal. Maia and the midwife are closely
linked, and when I learned the link, some months ago, it seemed good to me to
start my new Journal with a note about Maia, and the derived word,
maieutic.

Maia ~ midwife

The maieutic mode of enquiry is the way a midwife teaches and
learns.

The dictionaries explain the connection:

Maieutic = act as midwife. Pertaining to the Socratic method
of bringing out ideas latent in the mind. [Webster's]

Didactic (Gr didaktos from didaskein = to
teach) In medicine, pertaining to teaching by lectures and textbooks, as opposed
to teaching by the clinical method.

My journal allows me to explore my thoughts, to reflect on my experiences,
and bring out a new understanding of what it means to me to be with
woman. I do not attempt to teach a woman how to birth her baby. My work is
to seek ways of restoring to her the authority that is rightly hers for her
body. Some women are strongly conscious of their own personal autonomy. For this
woman I am able to join in the celebration of life, sharing her confidence and
protecting her safe space. Another woman has been hurt in the past, and
struggles to trust her body. She asks me to go with her through her time of
pain, and lend strength where she is weak.

The birth of Maia took place in the kitchen of the small rented house. The
birthing pool was set up where the kitchen table had been. This pool became a
big blue watery womb which encircled the labouring woman and her man. As the
baby's head birthed the woman's hands were in constant contact with her child.
My left hand rested gently on the woman's hand, and in my right hand I held a
torch. I passed the light to my partner midwife as I reached into the water to
support the baby's body as the mother lifted her child triumphantly out of the
water. The other midwife and the woman's sister witnessed the birth through the
lenses of two cameras - providing a superb sequence of treasured birth
photos.

During the preceding months the woman learned to trust me and shared some of
her deep concerns. The big issue centred on her first-born, a bright and
energetic two-year old. It was obvious that the birth of the first child had
changed her life. This child had taught her to be a mother. This child was the
essence of her womanhood. This child had captured her heart. Would there be room
enough for the second?

I saw the woman engage herself fully in the great paradox of total attachment
and total separation, as she approached the time of birth. The memory of the
first birth was strong. As she spoke of that time, in a different place, she
became aware of the need to let go of that experience in order to take up the
new. Before labour the woman wondered if she should use the homoeopathics that
she had used last time. She consciously separated herself from the known path,
and accepted the unknown, wanting to trust her body to labour at the right time.
The first labour had been long, and her midwife had encouraged her to check the
opening of her cervix. We talked about checking the cervix. She decided to trust
her body that the labour was progressing, without any checks. After spending
some time in the birth pool the woman began to fear that her labour was slowing
down, and she remembered the time when, in her first labour, she had been helped
out of the water so that she could walk to stimulate the labour. She wondered,
as she laboured for the second time, if she should get out of the water. I
encouraged her to trust her body; to relinquish conscious control; and to submit
to the forces that were at work in her body. She did. Separation from the known;
embracing the unknown.

The separation from the known also meant a physical separation from the first
child. This was something that the woman did not understand until she was in
labour. She had thought she would like to have him there, participating in the
birth. Yet as she laboured she found that she was distracted by his presence.
Her sister came and read to him in bed. He stayed awake long beyond his usual
bedtime, and it was not until he was quiet that the woman could feel free to
work with the labour. In accepting the separation from her darling, she took up
the challenge of the second child.

The time of attachment to the newcomer was also directed by intuitive forces
within the woman, rather than by any pre-thought plan. Her hands did not leave
the baby's head as it gently emerged. The newborn child absorbed her total
focus, as she and her man joyfully welcomed the little one. The woman's arms
became a protective encirclement, as she held her child close to her breast.

The babe nursed vigorously for a long time that morning, then slept. She did
not seek the breast again until the following evening. That time of wakefulness
and eagerness to take milk became the woman's opportunity to give her undivided
attention to her daughter, and to "fall in love".

The little boy woke to find that he had a sister. The woman was
satisfied.

The miracle of the second child is that mother-love, instead of being shared,
is multiplied. The woman found that she did not have to take love from her
first-born in order to give it to her second. The necessary brief separation
allowed a new attachment, which included all that had been precious before the
birth.